Tuesday morning we woke up to yet another beautiful day of sunny, gorgeous weather. We planned on going down to Coney Island, on the recommendation of reader Jill, to check things out and take pictures of a new client and her baby.

On the walk to meet our new friend/client/Natalie, Tyler said, "You know... I wonder if she really wants to go all the way out to Coney. Maybe we should offer up Central Park- it's much closer." As in, one block away from our current location.

So we said Hey, Natalie, do you want to just go to Central Park? And it was decided, yes.

After the CP shoot, we suddenly had about 4 extra hours on our hands, to do whatever. We agreed we'd go back to our rented apartment, the kids would take a nap, Tyler would "supervise" the napping, and I would head off very early to Connecticut where I was due for sessions later that afternoon.

I set off on my "alone time" adventure to CT. I got the car out of the garage, maneuvered through the city like a total pro, and made it about 10 miles out of Manhattan before the phone began to ring. Over and over and over again.

Finally I found my phone- it was Tyler.

"Um... the cleaning lady is here... she said we were supposed to check out today? Hours ago?" His voice was a teensie bit apprehensive.

I freaked out. We were suppposed to check out on the 25th!!! I shouted this repeatedly into the phone. THE 25TH!!! Is TODAY the 25th???

Readers: Such is the danger of living our lifestyle. We tend to not know what date it is. Mostly we are aware of the day of the week- but, by relying too heavily on our i-Calendars, without actually LOOKING AT THE DATE- we just follow along blindly and suddenly find out that-

HOLY CRAPEZOID IT IS THE 25th!

So there I am, barreling down some freeway, alone, hair blowing in breeze of the open window, totally panicking, screaming, It's the 25th! It's the 25th! But somehow not believing that it IS the 25th, the day of checkout. I pull off the exit, get right back on the other way, pay the $4 toll I JUST PAID GOING THE OTHER WAY and try to calmly ask Tyler to forgive my evil mistake, and beg him to pack up everything I so lovingly unpacked for hours- in 20 minutes.

I hang up.

The landlady calls. Her Brooklyn accent is thick. And she is mad.

I am quite sure I'm too innocent to understand and repeat what was said in that phone call...

Minutes later, I maniacally drive into the fire hydrant space in front of the apartment. I rip open the trunk door. I grab out the enormous car-top carrier (that we had to take off the top of the car to fit in the parking garage), I grab out SO MUCH JUNK that we tote around just as...

Tyler races down the steps of the brownstone, kids in tow, each person carrying about 5 miscellaneous bags, with underwear and crayons spewing out of the tops, and they throw it on the sidewalk and head up again to see if they missed anything and to get the suitcase, OH AND BELLE HAS TO PEE AGAIN, and yes, this is happening.

So while I'm packing the car, Tyler is trying to appease the cleaning lady, Isabelle is taking care of biz, Isaac is bursting with pride at his "helpfulness to daddy while packing up", and the Toyota is getting stuffed to the gills.

3 minutes later, we are on the road.

I would say this is "just another day in the life of the Whitacres," but if I did, I'd be lying, because another stressful day like that and we'd all be dead.

From London, at the Pergola. A place to bring your stuffed loves and skip around.